


Once a Victim

by falsteloj



Category: Submarine - Fandom, Young Dracula
Genre: Drugs, Love Bites, M/M, POV First Person, Pastiche, References to Drugs, Vampires, Welsh Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-23
Updated: 2011-12-23
Packaged: 2017-10-27 22:54:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falsteloj/pseuds/falsteloj
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver gets more than he bargained for.</p><p>(I have a ton more YD stuff - you can find story summaries, etc, by clicking <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/512861/chapters/27201609">HERE</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once a Victim

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this about ten minutes after reading the book, mostly to have a go at pastiching Dunthorne's unusual style. Craig Roberts, who played Robin Branagh in Young Dracula, had been cast as Oliver Tate in the then upcoming movie, so I ended up writing a crossover. The dates are out but, in my defence, I didn't realise the book was meant to be set earlier!

It's the kind of scene you read about in the newspapers. Not the newspapers my parents receive, but the type Chips' dad leaves lying around their untidy front room. The Star and the Sun and, on special occasions, the News of the World.

The man is gasping. Strange noises pushing past his parted lips. I cannot distinguish if it is a cry for help or a plea for more. I loiter, comparing the sounds to the breathy mewls Jordana used to make.

Sounds I no longer use as a masturbatory aid.

Statistically somebody, somewhere, is raped every six minutes. This could be what is about to happen in front of me. I debate whether or not to intervene. If I don't, it could be the worst thing I've ever done.

However in this instance I will be an accessory rather than the perpetrator, unlike with Kieran. He is psychologically scarred. I saw him, coming out of the therapy centre in town. I didn't meet his eye.

Perhaps it will be the second worst thing I've ever done.

_**Punctilious**  
–adjective. Extremely attentive to punctilios; strict or exact in the observance of the formalities or amenities of conduct or actions._

I am uncertain as to the etiquette of the situation. How does one fight off a rapist? Jordana's cousin was raped. She didn't get pregnant. Jude says this was an act of God.

I think it was because the rapist could not climax.

It is a common problem among rapists. I read it in a book I once borrowed from the public library. It smelt musty and strange, like an old man had repeatedly coughed into the yellowing pages.

They have clocked my presence now, the man under attack meeting my gaze with terrified eyes, although his jaw is slack. He does not attempt to escape his assailant.

Once a victim, always a victim. I hypothesise he was molested as a child. This reawakening of the cycle of guilt will probably drive him to suicide.

Hanging is the most common form of suicide in Wales. This is surprising because it is one of the most painful ways to die. It can take over ten minutes to lose consciousness. My dad says that in the past people held on to their loved ones legs to kill them faster. He gets paid to know that.

The attacker raises his head from the other man's throat, his lips bloodied. It makes me feel nauseous. Vampirism is the act of drawing blood from another person, usually sexual in nature. It is a fetish. Other fetishes include:

  
_**Catoptrophilia** — Unusual titillation in the presence of mirrors._

_**Agalmatophilia**  — The arousal by statues, mannequins, dolls and effigies._

_**Chremastistophilia**  — Excitement at being robbed or held up._

There is also   
_**raptophilia** \- becoming sexually aroused by the idea of being raped_.

I have never felt raptophilic in the slightest.

The attacker relinquishes his hold on his prey, the man stumbling away from the alleyway without sparing me a backwards glance. This is a modern 'every man for himself' world. I should have carried on walking and left the man in front of me to cut him into pieces and deposit his body in the River Tawe.

He advances towards me and I can see that his pupils are heavily dilated. My mother will be upset about this. She likes to be sympathetic to drug addicts, presumably because of her recreational use of low grade cannabis. She will struggle to maintain this attitude if her only son is killed by a junkie.

There are more drug addicts in the UK than in any other European country. A gram of heroin costs between £10 and £30. On average drug taking turns fatal for around 3,000 British citizens every year.

"Robin?" He asks, blown pupils struggling to focus on my face. I stay silent.

He has very pale skin. Paler than the skin on the inside of my arms. Paler even than the delicate flesh hidden by my watch strap.

"It is you, isn't it?" He tries again, tone almost reverent. His accent is strange, eastern European with a strong Welsh inflection. My knees feel weak with fear, and I map out all the likely places on my body he might choose to stab with a soiled hypodermic needle. "Do you remember me?"

I nod, although I have never seen him before in my life. I don't want to anger him. If he wants me to be Robin, I can be. It's a relatively small price to pay in exchange for my life.

The average male life span is 76 years. My great-granddad lived to 78. My granddad died at 86. Statistically this gives me a good head start over those around me. If I am murdered I will never know how 21st century convenience food impacts on this genetic good fortune.

He has me backed up against the wall now, no escape. His eyes are blue, and his teeth are still stained pink. "I've missed you," he tells me, reaching long pale fingers up to caress my cheek. His skin is almost translucent; not white like Zoe's, or tinged blue like Rhydian Evans'. "I think about you every day."

Over 1,600 people die from malignant melanoma each year. You can take easy precautions to protect yourself from the sun, such as wearing a hat, a t-shirt, and staying out of the midday sun.

If I said this to the ghostly pale apparition in front of me, I would be preaching to the converted.

"Have you missed me?" He asks, so close I can feel the words fan against my chilled skin. There is an urgency in his drug addled eyes, and his other hand comes up to frame my face, fingers gentle as they push into my hairline.

Chips once said that, in this situation, he would knee the other bloke in the bollocks and run like the wind. I'm not much of a runner, but if I did it hard enough that would hardly matter. If done with enough force it can cause testicular rupture. Some people like it. They are Phalloorchoalgolagniacs.

I watched a documentary on it on Sky.

He doesn't wait for my response, as I expected. Instead he leans in closer, brushing icy lips against my own, his thigh falling between my legs. It has been 6 months and 5 days since my last encounter with a girl. My heterosexuality becomes less secure in the eyes of my peers with every passing moment.

Making out with a man who wants to rape me in a darkened alley will do nothing to relieve them of their doubts.

His tongue is slick against my own, and tastes metallic. This is not from eating flying saucers like Arwen Slade back on the bus to Dan-Yr-Gof show caves in year eight. I am willfully sucking on a third party's blood from the mouth of a complete stranger.

I cannot even begin to list the number of fatal diseases I am leaving myself open to.

His hand is clutching at my side, pushing up under the fabric of my shirt. I make an unintelligible keening noise into his mouth as he presses his thigh harder against me, and he responds by kissing me with greater fervour. I can feel his erection against my thigh and I mentally readjust my position on the Kinsey scale.

I am now rating -  
_**2:** Predominantly heterosexual, but more than incidentally homosexual._

He is easily a nine out of ten. My brain is unable to keep up. Only processing the fact that his teeth are so sharp my nipped lip is bleeding when he's already moved on to my neck.

Dai Davies was the first boy in our year to give a girl a proper love bite. Double D we used to call him; he said it stood for Dai Dracula. I was in no position to call him up on it. My own nickname at the time had still been Oliver Twat.

_**Love-Bite**  
\- Noun. is a temporary bruise or mark caused by kissing, sucking or biting the skin forcefully enough to burst blood vessels beneath the skin._

They typically last from four to twelve days and may be treated in the same way as other bruises.

I'm so hard, it hurts. I clutch at his shoulders, trying to pull him closer. He licks a stripe up my neck, and presses his palm against the straining denim. I groan, low and guttural so that it doesn't even sound like me.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, tone solemn, before latching onto my throat once more. I cannot even summon the presence of mind to be insulted. Hands grasp at my hips and we move together, sparks firing behind my closed eyelids with every thrust.

My reactions make me think that right now I am pushing into rating -  
_**5:**  Predominantly homosexual, only incidentally heterosexual._

"Oliver? Ol, you down 'ere?"

We pull apart and I squint back down the dimly lit alleyway. Of the many emotions that sweep over me at the sound of the familiar voice, relief is conspicuous by its absence. Dark eyes – suddenly clearer - meet mine, accusing.

"You're not him."

_**Stating the obvious:** The act of pointing out something already well known._

The yell comes again, bouncing off the grimy walls, "Oliver? Is that you?"

I don't answer and he releases me, wiping his hands against his trouser legs, as if I'd contaminated him somehow. He is clearly not an exhibitionist – that is someone who obtains sexual arousal through sexual behavior in view of third parties.

"Ol!" Harris calls a third time and I peer into the distance, just able to make out his broad shouldered frame. When I look back there is nobody there. No doe eyed junkie with too pale skin and blood stained lips. Nothing but the raging hard on pressing against my zipper and the cold as the saliva on my neck dries in the night air.

The bruises take seven days to fade completely. There is no stain on the Turkish rug, no lasting reminder.

I still cannot forget it.

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, feel free to chat / hit me with prompts over on Tumblr [@serenwib](http://serenwib.tumblr.com/) or Twitter [@falsteloj](https://twitter.com/falsteloj). :)


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